


After Hours

by VeronicaRich



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:10:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaRich/pseuds/VeronicaRich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each night, Lister and Rimmer need to shut off shop talk; it's a ritual Lister insists upon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Series X, taking place after "Dear Dave."

“Regulations clearly state you should be-“

“I don’t give two good smegs about the regulations.”

“You never do, and that’s the very heart of the problem; isn’t it time you started caring?”

Lister glanced at the oven clock, which was nearest him. “Actually, this is not the time, no.”

Rimmer frowned, the action wrinkling up his face. “Always putting off growing u-“

“In fact, Rimmer,” he interrupted before the man could spit out something that’d change his mind, “it’s not the time at all. Can’t you see the time?”

“What’s that got to do … Oh,” Rimmer trailed off as he saw the clock flashing 9:33. He kept his screwed-up frown a moment, and Lister knew he wanted to disagree. To finish and try to win. He pointed at Lister, snapping his fingers. “You’re still using the name.”

Lister sighed and nodded. “So I did.” He waited a beat. “It’s past nine-thirty, Arn.” He cocked his head. “Okay? Please?” He softened his voice to what worked.

Within about ten seconds, Rimmer let his expression relax visibly. “All right, Dave.” It was their nightly signal.

“Thanks.” Lister shrugged off his jacket with a few soft whooshes as the breaking leather crinkled, draped it over the back of a stool, and reached up to cup Rimmer’s jaw as he leaned in and met Lister’s lips in a long kiss. Their bodies relaxed much more guardedly, making their nightly adjustments from the daily work Rimmer insisted they tackle, into simply being together, through this weird Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hide-the-Sausage relationship technique Lister had read about in some ancient magazine. He was adamant they not go to bed angry or estranged each night, instead, putting any work squabbles on ice until after next day’s breakfast (which for Lister was anywhere from 8 to after noon). When 9:30 in the evening rolled ‘round, if one of them was not on watch, they had to switch to first names only and drop any work subject – even if they were with Cat and Kryten. It was a clear win for Lister, who then had twelve hours more or less to try to change Rimmer’s mind about some stupid report or other.

When the kiss ended, Lister leaned against him, eyes shut while their noses pressed together. Blindly, he walked his fingers up into the tightly-wound reddish concoction on top of Rimmer’s head, his lips curling into a silent laugh as he heard the air-blow of consternation that accompanied this part of the ritual most nights. He began tugging at strands, teasing out locks of hair sturdy with gel and rubbing them between his fingers until he could feel them softening and looping around his knuckles. He kissed Rimmer again, very slowly, as his fingers plowed and scrunched and carded, licking his teeth and tongue until the man practically purred “Listy” and hauled him closer by his backside.

By now, Lister knew where to reach without looking to hit the button that extended the lower bunk out toward the table into a double. They still wore a few clothes as they ended up in bed, but it wasn’t sex he was after immediately; neither did Rimmer push it, kissing him back somewhat breathlessly and with a little less aggression. Eventually Lister pulled back and waited until Rimmer opened his eyes, darker now, and fixed on him. “How was your day?” he began.

“Long,” he admitted on a sigh. “Had this annoying little toerag not listen to a goited thing I told him.” Lister laughed quietly. “Yours?”

“About what you’d expect,” he reported with a small shrug. “A petty dictator on my tits for the joy of power.” Rimmer rolled his eyes, but with a tiny smile – worlds better than the indignation and bluster that marked his first responses to this little game several months ago. “I’m pretty sure he just needs to get his leg over.”

“Is that so.”

Lister grinned like mad at the soft tone. “Yeah. And, he’s always interrupting me studying. Like that robotics certification’s gonna pass itself.”

“Maybe he just wants to know you’re not wasting work time pretending to read, by seeing what you’ve learned,” Rimmer suggested merrily. “Maybe he walks in and sees you with that nose in a book, and thinks its incredibly, really sexy, and can’t resist bothering you.”

“You think?” Off Rimmer’s bare nod, he scrunched his brow. “Hmm … wonder what I need to do about it.”

It was Rimmer’s turn to kiss him, long and deep, and whisper, “Say something engineery,” against his mouth.

“Mmph,” Lister thought out loud. “Coolant. Wires. Piston.” Rimmer murmured approvingly, his hand curling around Lister’s own hard shaft. “Diodes. Insulation. Coolant.”

“Said that already,” Rimmer muttered, his thumb grazing the sticky head, long fingers wrapping and stroking. “Sorry,” Lister apologized, as he thought _Lips. Tongue. Big nose. Fingernails. Touch. Fuuuuuck._ “Protocols. Hard … warm metal,” he gasped as fingertips caressed his balls. He reached into Rimmer’s hair and squeezed a handful of thick curls, grateful they were long enough not to pull too hard at his scalp. “O-rings. Cables. Wren-ches,” he drew out as the hand palmed the underside of his shaft and rubbed up and down. His hips rocked. _Your lips around my cock, Arn … oh sweet need, please._

“More,” Rimmer was ordering, licking his neck as he scooted in closer and got a knee between Lister’s. He’d willed the rest of his holographic clothes away and Lister felt the heat of his skin through his thin t-shirt. “Tell me about those pistons …”

“Oh,” Lister groaned, as the other man used his hand to cup both cocks together. “The pistons. Um … long and hard, and hard, and … powerful.”

“Indeed?” Rimmer’s voice was strained, too.

“Oh, yeah.” He lifted his foot and curled the leg around Rimmer’s hip, leaning into him. He licked his lips, staring at Rimmer’s mouth. “And boilers … They need constant … stroke, and lick and suck, to run at their best.” He gave up and lunged at that mouth, enveloping it, letting Rimmer roll him onto his back as they took their time, then, and rutted and wrestled their way to climaxes, Lister first for a switch.

When he came back to himself a couple of minutes later and could breathe again, his face was half-immersed in that lovely strawberry brunet hair, as Rimmer still panted quietly into his chest. “Easy,” he soothed, settling a hand on the back of his shoulder and rubbing, as Rimmer turned his head enough to clearly say, “You certainly are.”

“Hey!” Lister barked. Rimmer began laughing; so did he, feeling the rest of the tension bleed off. “I’M easy … I’m not the one putting out for a little vocabulary, miladdo.” He did a fair imitation of Rimmerian officiousness, reaching back behind the pillow for a handful of tissues to pass down to him. “You don’t have to shift just yet,” he reassured Rimmer, putting the hand back on his shoulder.

But Rimmer lifted up to clean them off, settling afterwards hovering over him, forearms on the pillow bracketing his head. “The real thing is, Dave,” he asked, tugging at his dreadlocks as he resettled them, “is, do you know what all of that means and how it all works?”

He thought that over. “So far, yeah,” he nodded. He didn’t have to lie; there was a time Rimmer would have been insanely offended that Lister could pick up on anything that gave Rimmer such difficulty, but so far he’d been surprisingly supportive of Lister’s studies. “I just have an aptitude for that stuff. Gran said I was taking Dad’s model cars apart when I was little and sometimes putting parts of them back together right.”

“Jim seemed like he’d be good at that, too.” Lister nodded. They didn’t talk much about the twins, but he suspected Rimmer knew he thought about them more days than not. Especially lately, after the post and all.

“Well, he would be. They both might. Makes sense, I mean, since they’re basically clones of me. Not really my kids in the regular way one would be with some different woman’s DNA in there, too, are they?”

“I think of them as children,” Rimmer countered. “You were miserable with them for nine months; that has to count for something.”

Lister counted some white strands in Rimmer’s hair, reminded of how long this argument had gone on. “Wasn’t all misery.” Some days had been nice, even sort of blissful. But not the illness; not feeling giant and clumsy; and not the horniness, especially the days when Rimmer had looked good- He laughed at the irony of it, took pity on Rimmer’s suddenly confused expression, and leaned up for a quick kiss.

“I can’t believe I’m going to say it, but Kryten’s right. You need to quit moping for what and who isn’t in reach, and focus on what you’ve got in your life now."

“You mean sort of like a promotion that just isn’t happening?” Lister asked dryly. He tried to mitigate it by reaching up and smoothing back some of Rimmer’s frizz. “We’ve all got things we want that we can’t have, Arn. Doesn’t make us want ‘em less, or bad for it.”

“Believe me,” he said, turning his head and resting its side on Lister’s chest again, “I know.”


End file.
